Twin Blessings and Toward Home: Twin Blessings / Toward Home

Praise for Carolyne Aarsen and her novels

“Twin Blessings is another delightful romance by Carolyne Aarsen sure to bring a smile to your lips.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“Ms. Aarsen’s refreshing characters learn to forgive, love and hope in this pleasing tale.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Cowboy’s Bride

“Carolyne Aarsen writes with tender empathy and a true understanding of the struggles her characters endure in A Family-Style Christmas.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“A spunky heroine keeps the story fun while a warm romance brews at just the right temperature. You’ll be glad to read Finally a Family.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Twin Blessings

&

Toward Home

Carolyne Aarsen

CONTENTS

TWIN BLESSINGS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

TOWARD HOME

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

CAROLYNE AARSEN

and her husband, Richard, live on a small ranch in Northern Alberta, where they have raised four children and numerous foster children, and are still raising cattle. Carolyne crafts her stories in her office with a large west-facing window through which she can watch the changing seasons while struggling to make her words obey.

Twin Blessings

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place, what is man that you are mindful of him and the son of man that you care for him?

—Psalms 8:3–4

To Richard and my kids.

Always helpful and supportive.

Always enthusiastic and encouraging.

Chapter One

The sun was directly overhead.

Logan’s vehicle was headed south. Down the highway toward Cypress Hills—oasis on the Alberta prairie and vacation home of Logan Napier’s grandfather and parents.

Logan Napier should have been happy. No, Logan Napier should have been euphoric.

Usually the drive through the wide-open grasslands of the prairies put a smile on his face. The tawny landscape, deceptively smooth, soothed away the jagged edges of city living. The quiet highways never ceased to work their peace on him, erasing the tension of driving in Calgary’s busy traffic.

Usually, Logan Napier drove one-handed, leaning back, letting the warm wind and the open space work its magic as he drove with the top of his convertible down.

Today, however, his hands clenched the steering wheel of a minivan, his eyes glaring through his sunglasses at the road ahead. In his estimation a single man moving up in the world shouldn’t be driving a minivan. Nor should a single man be contemplating seven different punishments for ten-year-old twin nieces. And his mother.

All three were supposed to be neatly ensconced in the cabin in the hills. He was supposed to be coming up for a two-week holiday, spending his time drawing up plans for a house for Mr. Jonserad of Jonserad Holdings. If he was successful, it had the potential to bring more work from Jonserad’s company to his architecture partnership.

Instead his mother had just called. She was leaving for Alaska in a day. Then the tutor called telling him that she was quitting because she wasn’t getting the support she needed from Logan’s mother. Each phone call put another glitch in his well-laid plans.

He hadn’t planned on this, he brooded, squinting against the heat waves that shimmered from the pavement as he rounded a bend. Logan hit the on button of the tape deck and was immediately assaulted by the rhythmic chanting of yet another boy band, which did nothing for his ill humor. Every area of his life had been invaded by his nieces from the first day they came into his home, orphaned when their parents died in a boating accident.

Grimacing, Logan ejected the tape and fiddled with the dials. How was he supposed to work on this very important project with the girls around, unsupervised and running free?

How were they supposed to move on to the next grade if they didn’t have a tutor to work with them? And where was he supposed to find someone on such short notice? It had taken him a number of weeks to find one who was willing to go with the girls to Cypress Hills and to follow the studies their previous teacher had set out.

Glancing down, Logan gave the dial another quick twist. Finally some decent music drifted out of the speakers. He adjusted the tuner then glanced up.

He was heading directly toward a woman standing on the side of the road.

Logan yanked on the steering wheel. The tires squealed on the warm pavement as the van swung around her.

He slammed on the brakes. The van rocked to a halt, and Logan pulled his shaking hands over his face.

He took a slow breath and sent up a heartfelt prayer, thankful that nothing more serious had happened. He got out of the van in time to see the woman bearing down on him, a knapsack flung over one shoulder.

Her long brown hair streamed behind her, her eyes narrowed.

“You could have killed me,” she called, throwing her hands in the air.

“I’m sorry,” he said, walking toward her. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. You missed me.” She stopped in front of him, her hands on her hips, her dark eyes assessing him even as he did her.

She was of medium height. Thick brown hair hung in a heavy swath over one shoulder. Her deep brown eyes were framed by eyebrows that winged ever so slightly, giving her a mischievous look. Her tank top revealed tanned arms, her khaki shorts long, tanned legs. Bare feet in sandals. Attractive in a homegrown way.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

Logan blinked, realizing he was studying her a little too long. Chalk it up to loneliness, he thought. And he must be lonely if he was eyeing hitchhikers. “Just trying to find a radio station,” he said finally.

She shook her head, lifting her hair from the back of her neck. “Checking the latest stock quotations?”

In spite of the fact that he knew he hadn’t been paying attention and had almost missed her, Logan still bristled at her tone. “Why were you on the side of the road?” he returned.

A few vehicles whizzed by, swirling warm air around the two of them.

“Thumbing for a ride.” She let her hair drop, tilted her head and looked past him. “I suppose you’ll have to give me one now, since you’ve almost killed me and then made me miss a few potentials.”

She didn’t look much older than twenty and about as responsible as his nieces. He wasn’t in the mood to have her as a passenger, but he did feel he owed her a ride.

“I didn’t almost kill you,” he said, defending himself. “But I am sorry about the scare.”

“So do I get a ride?”

Logan hesitated. He felt he should, though he never picked up hitchhikers as a rule.

“I won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Her lips curved into a smirk. “And I won’t take your wife and kids hostage or try to sue you for taking five years off my life.”

“I don’t have a wife and kids.”

“But you have a minivan.”

Logan frowned at her smirk and decided to let the comment pass. He wasn’t in the mood to defend the necessity of his vehicle to a complete stranger, not with the sun’s heat pressing all around. “Look, I’m sorry again about what I did. But I’m running late. If you want a ride, I’m leaving now.”

He didn’t look to see if she had followed him, but she had the passenger door open the same time he had his open.

“Nice and cool in here,” she said, pulling off her knapsack. She dropped it on the floor in front of her and looked around. “So, what’s a guy like you need a minivan for?” she asked, as Logan clicked his seat belt shut.

“What do you mean, a guy like me?” Logan frowned as he slipped on his sunglasses and checked his side mirror.

“Near as I can see, I figure you for an accountant,” she said, glancing around the interior of the van. “Laptop in the seat, briefcase beside it. All nice and orderly. Someone like you should be driving a sedan, not a van.”

“Do you usually analyze the people who pick you up?” Logan asked as he pulled onto the road, regretting his momentary lapse that put him in this predicament. He had things on his mind and didn’t feel like listening to meaningless chatter.

“I need to. I hear too many scary stories about disappearing women.”

“So why take the chance?” He glanced at her, and in spite of his impression of her, he was struck once again by her straightforward good looks.

“Sense of adventure. The lure of the open road.” She shrugged. “That and the free ride.”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I detect a faint note of derision in your voice,” she said with a light laugh. “If you’re an accountant, I would imagine that there isn’t a column in your life for freeloaders.”

Logan didn’t deign to answer that one.

She waited, then with a shrug bent over and pulled a bottle of water out of her knapsack. Twisting off the top, she offered some to him. “Some free water as payment for my free ride?”

He shook his head.

The woman took a sip and backhanded her mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her scrutiny.

“To further answer your previous question about taking chances,” she continued. “I have to admit that I don’t see you as a threat.”

Logan only nodded, unwilling to encourage her. He didn’t really want to talk. He preferred to concentrate on his most recent problem.

“You’ve got the briefcase, which could be hiding a murder weapon,” she said, as if unaware of his silence, “but I’m sure if I were to open it, it would be full of paper. Probably the financial section of the newspaper, folded open to the stock market. Let’s see, what else,” she mused aloud, still studying him. “A calculator, some sort of computerized personal organizer, a variety of pens and pencils, a package of chewing gum, a manual of one type or another and business cards, of course. Lots of business cards. Murderers don’t usually carry that kind of thing. But my biggest clue that you’re not a murderer is this.” She held up the tape that had fallen out of the tape deck. “I don’t think boy bands singing ‘oh baby, baby, you are a little baby, you baby’ is what a would-be murderer would listen to.” She stopped finally, turning the tape over in her hands. “Of course, listening to it might drive you to murder.”

In spite of the minor annoyance of her chatter, Logan couldn’t stop the faint grin teasing his mouth at her last statement.

“Ah, Mr. Phlegmatic does have a faint sense of humor,” she said, lifting her bare feet to the seat and clasping her arms around her knees.

“This Mr. Phlegmatic would prefer it if you buckled up,” he said finally.

“And Mr. P. talks,” she said with a saucy grin. But to his surprise she lowered her feet and obediently buckled up. “So what do you do when you’re not running over women on the side of the road?”

Logan shook his head in exasperation. “Look, I already apologized for that,” he said with a measure of asperity. “I don’t make a habit of that anymore than I make a habit of picking up hitchhikers.”

“Well, for that I’m grateful. And of course, very grateful that I don’t have to worry about not reaching my destination.”

“And where, ultimately, is that?” he asked.

“The next stop on this road,” the woman said with a laugh. “The Hills.”

“That’s where I’m headed, too.”

“That’s just excellent.” She beamed at him, and Logan felt a faint stirring of reaction to her infectious enthusiasm.

He pulled himself up short. This woman was definitely not his type, no matter how attractive she might be. He put his reaction down to a melancholy that had been his companion since he and Karen had broken up.

A gentle ache turned through him as he thought of Karen. When Logan was awarded sole guardianship of his nieces, Karen had decided that the responsibility was more than she could handle. So she broke up with Logan. At the time he didn’t know if it was his pride or his feelings that hurt more. He still wasn’t sure.

“So what’s your name?” he asked, relegating that subject to the closed file.

“Sandra Bachman. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. P.”

Logan decided to leave it at that. He wasn’t as comfortable handing out his name. Not to a total stranger.

She smiled at him and looked at the countryside. “Do you come here often?”

Logan glanced sidelong at her, realizing that she wasn’t going to be quiet. Ignoring her didn’t work, so he really had not choice but to respond to her. “Not as often as I’d like,” he admitted. “I work in Calgary.”

“As an accountant?”

“No. Architect.”

“Ooh. All those nice straight lines.”

Logan ignored her slightly sarcastic remark. “So what do you do?”

Sandra lay her head back against the headrest of the car. “Whatever comes to mind. Wherever I happen to be.” She tossed him another mischievous glance. “I’ve been a short-order cook on Vancouver Island, a waitress in California, a receptionist in Minnesota. I’ve worked on a road crew and tried planting trees.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too hard. The only constant in my life has been my stained glass work.”

“As in church windows?”

“Sometimes. Though I don’t often see the finished project.”

“Why not?”

“Been there, done that and bought the T-shirt. Not my style.”

Sandra Bachman sounded exactly like his mother—always moving and resistant to organized religion.

“Do you go to church?” she asked.

“Yes, I do,” he said hoping that his conviction came through the three words. “I attend regularly.”

“Out of need or custom?”

He shook his head as he smiled. “Need is probably uppermost.”

“A good man.” Again the slightly sarcastic tone. In spite of his faint animosity toward her, he couldn’t help but wonder what caused it.

“Going to church doesn’t make anyone good anymore than living in a garage makes someone a mechanic,” he retorted.

She laughed again, a throaty sound full of humor. “Good point, Mr. P.”

She tilted her head to one side, twisting her hair around her hand. “You have a cabin in Elkwater?”

Logan nodded, checking his speed. “It’s my grandfather’s.”

“So you’re on holiday.”

“Not really.”

“Okay, you sound defensive.”

“You sound nosy.”

Sandra laughed. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.” She gave her hair another twist. “So if you’re not on holiday, why are you going to a holiday place?”

“I have to meet my mother.” And try and talk some sense into her, Logan thought. If he could convince his mother to stay, he might win a reprieve.

“So she’s holidaying.”

Logan glanced at Sandra, slightly annoyed at her steady probing. “My mother has her own strange and irresponsible plans,” he said.

His passenger angled him a mischievous glance, unfazed by his abrupt comments. “I sense tension between your mother’s choice of lifestyle and yours.”

“That’s putting it kindly. My mother has a hard time with responsibility.”

“Surely you’re being a little hard on her? After all, she raised you, didn’t she?”

Logan held her dancing eyes, momentarily unable to look away, catching a glimmer of her enthusiasm. She tilted her head again, as if studying him, her smile fading.

Her expression became serious as the contact lengthened.

She really was quite pretty, Logan thought. Possessed an infectious charm.

He caught himself and looked at the road, derailing that particular train of thought. This young woman was as far from what he was looking for as his mother was.

“So why are you so defensive about your mother?”

“Why do you care? I’ll probably never see you again.”

She lifted her shoulder in a negligent shrug. “Just making conversation. We don’t need to talk about your mother,” Sandra continued, biting her lip as if considering a safe topic. “We could talk about life, that one great miracle.”

“Big topic.”

“Depends on how you break it down.” She twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger. “What do you want from life?”

Logan wasn’t going to answer, but he hadn’t spent time with an attractive woman since Karen. He found himself saying, “Normal. I yearn for absolutely normal.” He wasn’t usually this loquacious with a complete stranger and wondered what it was about her that had drawn that admission from him.

“Normal isn’t really normal, you know,” Sandra replied, braiding her hair into a thick, dark braid. Her dark eyes held his a brief moment. “Sometimes normal makes you crazy.”

Logan gave her a quick look. “Now you sound defensive.”

“Nope. Just telling the truth.” She dropped the braid, and it lay like a thick rope over her tanned shoulders. “So what’s your plan to get your normal life?”

“That’s an easy one. I’m picking up my nieces, who are staying with my mother, who wants to scoot off to Alaska for some strange reason. Then I’m taking my nieces back home to Calgary. And that’s as close to normal as I’m going to get.”

The woman’s smile slipped, and she looked straight ahead. “Nieces?” she asked quietly. “As in two?”

“A matched set,” Logan replied. “Twin girls that have been a mixed blessing to me.”

She tossed him a quick glance, then looked away, as if retreating. She folded her hands on her lap, lay her head against the backrest and closed her eyes. The conversation had come to an end.

Logan wondered what caused the sudden change this time. Wondered why it bothered him. Wondered why he should care.

He had enough on his mind. He concentrated on the road, watching the enticing oasis of Cypress Hills grow larger, bringing Logan closer to his destination and decisions.

Finally the road made one final turn and then skirted the lake for which the town of Elkwater was named. Sandra sat up as Logan slowed down by the town limits.

“Just drop me off at the service station,” Sandra said.

He pulled up in front of the confectionary and gas station and before he could get out, Sandra had grabbed her backpack and was out of the van.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. P.,” she said with a quick grin. “I just might see you around.”

Logan nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious at all that he had told her, a complete stranger. He wasn’t usually that forthcoming. “You’re welcome,” he said automatically. She flashed him another bright smile then jogged across the street.

Logan slowly put the car in gear, still watching Sandra as she greeted a group of people standing by the gas pumps, talking. She stopped.

Logan couldn’t hear what she was saying but could tell from her gestures that she was relating her adventures of the day. They laughed, she laughed and for a moment Logan was gripped by the same feeling he had when she had first smiled at him.

He pulled away, shaking his head at his own lapse, putting it down to his frustration and, if he were to be honest, a measure of loneliness. Sandra Bachman was a strange, wild young woman, and he’d probably never see her again.

A few minutes later he pulled in beside a small blue car parked in front of a large A-frame house with a commanding view of Elkwater Lake.

“Oh, Logan, my darling. There you are.” Florence Napier stood on the porch of the house, her arms held out toward her only son.

As he stepped out of the car to greet his mother, Logan forced a smile to his lips at his mother’s effusive welcome. It always struck him as false, considering that when he and his sister were growing up, Florence Napier seldom paid them as much attention as she did her current project.

“Come and give us a kiss,” she cried. Today she wore a long dress made of unbleached cotton, covered with a loosely woven vest. Her long gray hair hung loose, tangling in her feathered earrings.

Her artistic pose, Logan thought as he dutifully made his way up the wooden steps to give her a perfunctory hug.

“I’m so glad you came so quickly, Logan. I was just packing up to leave.” Florence tucked Logan’s arm under hers and led him into the house. “I got an unexpected call from my friend Larissa. You remember her? We took a charcoal class together when we lived in Portland. Anyhow, she’s up in Anchorage and absolutely begged me to join her. She wants to do some painting. Of course I couldn’t miss this opportunity. We’re hoping to check out Whitehorse and possibly Yellowknife, since we’re up there anyway.”

Logan didn’t care to hear about his mother’s itinerary. He knew from his youth how hectic it would be. He had more important things to deal with. “Where are Brittany and Bethany?”

Florence wrinkled her nose. “Upstairs. Pouting. I told them you would be taking them home since that dyspeptic tutor you hired decided to quit.” Florence shrugged, signifying her inability to understand the tutor’s sudden flight.

“Diane has left already?” Logan had to ask, was hoping and praying it wasn’t true.

Florence’s shoulders lifted in an exaggerated sigh. “Yes. Two days ago. I’ve never seen a woman so lugubrious.”

Logan pulled his arm free from his mother, glaring at her, his frustration and anger coming to the fore. “I talked to her when she phoned me. She told me that you never backed her decisions.”

Florence looked at him, her fingertips pressed to her chest. “Logan. That woman’s goal was to turn my granddaughters into clones of herself.”

“Considering that she came very well qualified, that might not have done Bethany and Brittany any harm.”

Logan’s mother tut-tutted. “Logan, be reasonable. They’re young. It’s July. They shouldn’t have to do schoolwork. I moved you and your sister all over the country, and it never did you any harm.”

“Not by your standards,” Logan retorted. For a moment he was clearly reminded of Sandra.

Lord, give me strength, give me patience, he prayed. Right now would be nice. “They were also both earning a 45% average in school,” Logan said, struggling to keep his tone even. “It was only by begging and agreeing to hire a tutor to work with them over the summer that they won’t have to repeat grade five. If they don’t finish the work the teacher sent out and if they don’t pass the tests she’s going to give them at the end of the summer, they will repeat grade five.”

A quick wave of Florence’s hand relegated his heated remarks to oblivion. At least in her estimation. “My goodness, Logan. You put too much emphasis on formal education.” Then she smiled at him. “But don’t worry. I’m fully cognizant of your plans and I’ve already had the good luck and foresight to find a tutor for the girls. Imagine. She lives right here in Elkwater.”

“Really? And what are her qualifications?” Logan was almost afraid to ask.

“She has a Bachelor of Education from a well-respected eastern university. With—” she raised an index finger as if to drive her point home “—a major in history.”

“And what is this paragon’s name?”

“Sandra. Sandra Bachman.”